her's for his vandalism

by atti?

i loved you before you were trendy
.. before you wore alleyways
on the topsides of your feet;

a filthy blonde
in argyle moral-
but before the floor made it yours
i remembered open sores.

you wear your designers like your long lost heart:
to someone elses beat.

the art in your face never used to be so abstract
-that dead canvas
only knows the eraser marks
that didn't take away
the past.

.. provocateurs aren't supposed to move,
so every tear you spit
in deaf ears
adds another shaky stencil mark
to that crooked portrait you wear.

you're your own fault.
-these backstrokes through your slate colored hair
only trace the gaping flaws
that were already there-
those flimsy stares and offwhite fears
will just keep fossilizing
in that stone face, behind a logo
you hold so dear.

so keep crying
-beauty is in the eye of the beholder
and love is blind,
so lust just doesn't try.

contemporary lovers laid to waste
-beneath the 21st centaur we've
not the color wheels to frame
your oval maze.

you're an ugly duckling
all grown-down-
outside in, in-perfect pastel wings.

a face not even your own artist
could love.

you're the doodles of Picasso
unripened in the after birth of Escher's
pale of rotten seeds;
a bad apple could still be painted
but you are the core that was
given to me.

this vandalized heart
that beats in 3/4's under stolen loops
on my contemporary walls-
is as hideous as the idea
you will ever be more than the downfall
of artistry-

those dirty stones,
so filled with indecency and lack of respect-
your grafitti glare in my bare-
you're hideous;

you're not art.